Pale Mercy
by Woode Seren
Summary: They lived two lives entwined but apart; a love story that wasn't. First War One Shot. Unrequited.


_Pale Mercy _

The first time he saw her she was clothed in Gryffindor red, laughing brightly in the autumn sun with Lily Potter. He had been struck then by the light in her hair, pale and gold and beautiful. The moment hadn't lasted, his fool of a brother had come along and caught him staring and he had turned away, as far removed from them as the day was the night. He had gone off with his housemates and not thought of her again.

Five years later he sees her on the street. She looks haggard and it takes him a long moment to call her name to mind. Her face hadn't changed much, her sharp, elegant features could have put any pureblood witch to shame but the laugh had gone. She had glanced up at him as she passed with tired eyes, no hint of recognition in her face. He thinks perhaps that that was what drew him to her. She didn't know him for what he was when he already loathed himself.

The next time they meet she has her wand to his neck, so close he can feel his own racing pulse beneath her touch. She reeks of blood and the sound of her labored breathing hangs heavy in the air. She'd surprised him and he hadn't even had the time to draw his wand before she'd had him cornered. He had been certain that he was going to die but she had stepped away and vanished from the spot before he had been able to even contemplate escape. He stood there for a long time after, listening to the sound of the quiet, unable to understand the small mercy of her flight.

When she slips through the Dark Lord's grasp he finds himself afraid for her and he does not understand it. He should be angry over her defiance, after all she is one of the Order, someone who tarnishes what magic and power ought to be but her image lingers in his mind and he curses it. He does not fear or feel for anyone, least of all her.

He almost doesn't recognize her with bewitched dark hair, dressed in muggle clothing and jumping from the ambulance. He admires her cleverness in going undercover as a muggle healer; it's probably the last place the Death Eaters would go looking for her. She doesn't seem to notice him watching her as she moves elegantly among the wounded but when at last the sirens fade away she looks up to where he's standing in the shadows, having known all along who lurked there.

They first converse with wands drawn, each secret word a careful calculation but they grow lax with each accidental meeting. He finds himself hoping he'll run into her, he lurks where he knows his comrades will attack knowing that she'll come to heal the wounded and comfort the dying. He's certain his cowardice disgusts her but the secrets lead to questions that neither of them can abandon so she keeps her icy words to herself.

If she notices him on the London Street she doesn't show it. It's a rare sunny day but he's as gray as a rainstorm, eyes focused on the way her slender form leans into the red headed man, the sun in her hair, pale and gold and beautiful.

The word comes alive on paper and he cannot quite believe what she has found. His steel eyes meet her brilliant green and she takes his hand as he finally gives voice to the demons that taunt him. She doesn't mock or laugh but listens, filled with an iron strength he cannot capture.

He rushes to meet her but she's already gone, gone to where he's too afraid to follow.

Months later Regulus goes to her grave at the Orders abandoned headquarters. Nestled in the back of the decrepit cemetery it takes him a quarter of an hour to find, grass and weeds have grown high around it and he half wonders why he even came, it's too late for emotions or even goodbyes. He has nothing to say that he can craft into words.

He hates her for having had a muggle mother and he hates himself for caring, loathes her for having given him reason to care. He hates the world for having turned backwards on itself when it was once so orderly and right. His stone ideals crumbled with her touch and though he knows that he could never have had her, that a hundred thousand walls stood between them he can't help but wish it. He hopes that fragile wish is enough to sustain him.

He knows he ought to thank her but he's far too proud and he doesn't think she'd hear him anyway; her dying thoughts were not for him. Still, he goes to his own death quite confidently, striking back in his own quiet way, at last at peace.

**Authors Note: **While I am hands down a complete and unwavering fan of Dorcas/Fabian I am also a fan of stories about unrequited love and unconventional love (however D/F wins, poor Regulus). I know this is short but its an idea that I've been playing with for a while so I suppose I had to write something just to get it out of my head!

Reviews and Constructive Critique's are always welcome!


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